


you’re the edge of the ocean

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Crowley-centric, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, but not enough words, character internal dialogue, crowley has a lot of feelings, friends to...lovers?, throughout history, two-part story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: In which a fast-moving demon learns a bit about kindness, a bit about empathy, a bit about patience, a bit about restraint, and a whole lot about love. Eventually.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 25
Kudos: 116





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> The first work in this series to be beta’d and by none other than [DarknessAndFyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarknessAndFyre)❤️
> 
> Title is from ‘The Only Way to Love’ by Vanessa Carlton which is just piles on piles of ineffable husbands feelings.

Crowley showed up to Golgotha with no intention to mourn. 

He didn’t know Jesus that well anyway, just enough to know he was the type to turn away from the opportunity to rule all the kingdoms of the world. And anyway, it wouldn’t do for a demon to be seen paying respects to the son of God herself. Crowley was here out of curiosity. Nothing more.

Aziraphale was there— he shouldn’t have been surprised. And yet he was, because another look around showed him that Aziraphale was the only angel present. Poor thing, Crowley thought spitefully, seeing how somber Aziraphale was, and how quietly baffled he seemed that such a thing should come to a man who only asked that humans be kind to one another.

 _No wonder,_ Crowley thought grimly, and he said, “Well, that ought to do it.”

But then— just then— something lodged and settled deep in his heart when he saw Aziraphale break off from the group at the end of the Crucifixion and make a beeline straight for a woman in a blue cloak.

He watched her crumple onto the angel’s shoulder, sobbing, and Aziraphale was just _standing_ there, holding her, letting human tears fall onto his tunic-

Crowley suddenly caught himself wondering what it must feel like to be held by an angel.

* * *

Things hadn’t exactly been the same since then. Angel and demon parted ways, but Crowley couldn’t stop thinking of that softness, that kindness he had just seen, and he couldn’t ignore the twitch in his chest that could be either discomfort of being so close to divine energy, or a twinge of recognition at the love he could have once been surrounded by in Heaven.

He remembered burying the feeling down, expecting not to see Aziraphale again, and got to work. After all, humanity wasn’t going to damn itself, right?

A few months in Rome and Crowley found himself sorely mistaken.

It was even stranger and more unexpected when, at a crowded tavern where an angel has absolutely no business being, Crowley heard his name spoken softly and turned around and saw Aziraphale standing there—

There, right there. There was that twitch in his chest again.

Aziraphale hadn’t been deterred when Crowley barked out a smartass response when he asked “Still a demon, then?” (because honestly, what a stupid question). Instead he continued to make polite conversation. Crowley was thrown.

_Wait._

_Does this angel want to be my friend?_

Well, nobody had bothered to offer him oysters before.

* * *

_I get it,_ Crowley thought, _after that first dinner date. Figured it all out. Angel’s curious, like me. Not about the same things, but curious all the same._

Aziraphale’s curiosity prompted him to try new things, to acquire knowledge. He was wise in some ways, painfully naive in others, and Crowley realised as early as the days of Camelot that he was going to need that strength in his corner. An extra brain cell. An external advantage.

(And anyway, Aziraphale was friendly. Friendly didn’t come too often or too genuinely in a demon’s life.)

“Bit dead around here lately, eh?” Crowley said, knowing the approaching figure without bothering to look up. “Office must be busy downstairs.”

Ligur smirked. “All thanks to you.”

Crowley flung an arm out at the empty tavern. The barkeep slumped at the counter, staring blankly into space. The few patrons present kept their heads down, not making eye contact, some trying to conceal their dry coughs. Business hadn’t been great here since the plague came to town. “Hey, Ligur, man, it’s nothing. After the rat infestation well, everything came rather easy.”

“Even after the thwarting?”

“What thwarting?”

Ligur shrugged, seating himself across Crowley without so much as an invitation. “That angel. Aziraphale. Sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be, fudging up your plans. The Plague project was behind schedule because he interfered, right?”

‘Interfered’ in this case actually meant he got Crowley very drunk, and very happy stupid as a result, at this very tavern not too long ago. Crowley grinned uneasily. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Well, been keeping an eye on him, actually. Keeping an eye on his keeping an eye on me. And always one step ahead, I am.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” said Ligur. “From where I was sitting it sometimes seemed as if you two would be...conniving. In cahoots. Conspiring. You see?”

“Awful lot of C-words there, mate, but only one C-word I can think of that suits you,” mumbled Crowley. Ligur laughed. Thinly veiled insults were all part of standard business etiquette in Hell. “Okay, well, fine, if it makes you feel better—“ he leaned in closer to Ligur across the table as if they, too, were secretly conspiring, “at some point, I- I do plan to betray him. Oh, yeah. Just trying to gather enough information first.”

“Oh, really?” Ligur’s caramel-coloured eyes widened.

“Yeah, really.” Crowley nodded emphatically. “And maybe it’ll be ten months down the line, ten years, or ten centuries, but it’s coming all right, and I’m just waiting for the moment to do it so when it finally happens...”

“It’s gonna hurt?” said Ligur expectantly.

“Like a bitch,” confirmed Crowley.

Ligur smiled, impressed. “Oh, I see now. Yes, that’s bad.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Very, very bad.”

“Exactly.” And Crowley pushed a cup of ale toward him. The offer was not rejected.

Ligur patted Crowley’s shoulder and said there’d be a commendation waiting for him at Hell for the plague business. Of course Crowley did not say that all he did was sit back and watch the humans’ poor hygiene do all the work. They seemed rather reliable at causing their own misery and bringing out the worst in each other, all Crowley had to do was wait.

As for, well, that other thing, Ligur only brought it up a few times in the following centuries, but it never quite caught up to Crowley, even if he did have to remind himself that was what he should be doing.

But later, and not that much later either, at the Globe, in the throng of nobles and commoners alike who had miraculously shown up to see Hamlet, Crowley looked at the angel beaming by his side and felt that twitch in his chest, felt something, this time, flip itself over and light a tiny spark. The beginning of the beginning. The beginning of the end.

The Arrangement was tenuous, their alliance an uneasy one, but one thing was for sure: whether it ended in ten minutes or in ten years, it would not be because Crowley betrayed Aziraphale. Not for all the oysters in Rome.

* * *

It was not until the eighteenth century was well and truly under way that Crowley began to consider that this feeling might, in fact, be love. Hang around humans enough, and they’d eventually beat you over the head with the concept. At first Crowley was quick to brush the idea off. He’d lost that particular employee benefit when he sauntered down from Heaven.

Fitting, however, that the L-word introduced itself to Crowley’s perception of Aziraphale in Paris, the City of Love, despite love being in rather short supply during the Reign of Terror. Amidst the thudding slice of the guillotine and people singing the songs of angry men, an angel and a demon shared plates of exquisite crepes and glasses of rich red wine...and laughs, and stories, and trade secrets.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Crowley wheedled, as a sodding revolution went on around them and all Aziraphale did was take a dainty bite of a crepe. “You just let that Jean-Claude bloke get hauled off to the chopping block. What’s your side going to say about that?”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear boy,” chuckled Aziraphale. “Jean-Claude’s perfectly safe. The guillotine malfunctioned before he got there and his friend Pierre recognised him and got him out. All worked out rather conveniently in the end.”

Crowley found himself smiling. “Clever.”

“I do try.” Aziraphale’s smile turned wry and shy and gentle. “It helps if the pieces are in place first, though. I don’t suppose the miracle would have been half so effective if Pierre wasn’t already there. If Jean-Claude didn’t have a friend around...as I did.”

Friend. Well, of course, that’s what they were, technically, but it was one thing to be friends and another to call someone your friend, even if they were a demon; untrustworthy, incorrigible, unforgivable, unlovable...

The flicker in Crowley’s chest fanned into a small, but vibrant flame.

“Thank you again,” said Aziraphale softly, and Crowley would never forget the look in his eyes. He would find himself always and forever chasing the chance to see that look again, to be the cause of it— the reason for Aziraphale’s boundless, well-deserved and infectious joy.

 _Why, though?_ He asked himself later. _Why am I acting like one of those besotted fools in those romantic opera things? It’s not like I’m in love with him, am I?_

_Am I?_

“Nah,” chuckled Crowley, kicking up a loose pebble over the cobblestones as he sauntered along the edge of the Seine by night. “Can’t be. I’m a demon. Can’t love anything, much less be in love...”

Right?

* * *

_So why the Heaven did you drive through the Blitz?_

_Why the Heaven did you go inside a church?_

_Why the Heaven did you use up that miracle to make sure the bombs were deployed_ here?

_Why did you save those books?_

_Why the Heaven did you try to help Aziraphale?_

After all, didn’t he make it clear that he wasn’t going to help you...

Crowley pushed the thoughts away as the Bentley rolled through the quieting, wrecked streets of London. The angel sat in the front seat of his car, clutching the bag of books like it was his first born child. His rescue of Aziraphale had been lucky, even comedic, reminded him a bit of old times (of the Bastille and other moments Aziraphale had lent him a hand, back when he thought Crowley was worth it) but now that it was over...

“Here,” said Crowley nonchalantly, pulling up in front of the shop.

Aziraphale regraded him with a mixture of fascination and exasperation. “Where have you been?”

Crowley knew exactly what he was talking about. He shrugged, “I took that nap, like I said. And when I woke up I got busy. Wars, you know. Can you believe we’re already on our second?”

“Hmm,” was all Aziraphale said.

The air was thick, and not just because of the smoke and rubble.

“It’s just...I hardly recognised you anymore,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“What?”

“The suit. The car.” Aziraphale ran a hand over the upholstery of the seat. “The name. Anthony J.” It was almost like he was mourning the loss of an old friend. Maybe in his mind, he was.

“You can keep calling me Crowley,” said Crowley with another shrug. “But we gotta change with the times, Angel. Even you.”

He caught Aziraphale’s gaze. The blond repeated, “Angel.” He chuckled, “I did rather miss you calling me that.”

_When the Heaven did ‘Angel’ start meaning more than you intended?_

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale quietly. “I never did apologise for— for before.”

Crowley said nothing, though his eyes were wide behind the dark lenses. The last time they’d spoken, Aziraphale had torn his request for holy water into shreds to burn in a duck pond and stormed off. He hadn’t deigned to do this thing, this one single thing for his only friend, and it had left Crowley sullen and shattered and resolving to not, to never need Aziraphale again. But honestly, that had been decades ago, and Crowley had all but shaken it off after his nap; he was a new man, now, new suit and new car and new name—

A new man his old friend could barely even recognise.

“‘Ey,” Crowley said, despite himself. “Aziraphale. It’s fine. It’s whatever.”

“You have to understand, I didn’t mean to—“

“I know. Your side. My side. You did the right thing. Always do.”

Aziraphale exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I truly am. And...I’m grateful.” He hugged the books closer to his chest. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

And there was that look again.

The flame inside Crowley’s chest now resembled the strength of a tiny sun. Once again he tried to stamp it out. Wordlessly, he watched Aziraphale open the door, climb out and linger on the curb.

“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Crowley. “There’s a war on! Get inside before another bomb falls!”

(The bookshop would be safe. It was a miracle like that.)

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” was all Aziraphale said. His words burrowed deep into Crowley’s heart, settling there like they belonged. Aziraphale missed being called Angel. Crowley realised he missed being...cared about.

_ Maybe I love him. So what? _

He just tipped his hat and zoomed off.   
  


* * *

_Does Aziraphale love me?_

Crowley thought of the secret he’d been told on the wall of Eden, remembered the slide of raindrops off sleek white feathers as they spread overhead to shield him from the storm.

_Was that love? Has he always loved me?_

It’s what angels were put on Earth to do, so yes, in that way, perhaps Aziraphale did love him.

_But is he in love with me?_

He thought about every time the angel offered to take one of Crowley’s jobs without him having to ask, every time he covered Crowley’s tracks so the other demons wouldn’t find him, every time he’d waved Crowley off and said “Mind how you go”.

_He loves me._

_He doesn’t love me._

_No,_ Crowley thought, heart leaping in his chest when he found Aziraphale sitting in his car, the inside dappled with neon lights. _If he doesn’t love me, why is he here?_

“I work in Soho. I hear things.”

_He knows. He’s here to stop me. It’s like the argument we had in the park all over again. He doesn’t love me._

“You can call off the robbery.”

And Aziraphale passed him a thermos full of holy water.

_What?_

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley said eventually, settling for the bare minimum, the safe middle ground, as Aziraphale almost all but fantasised about dinner and picnics and things they couldn’t have.

_He loves me._

His voice was soft and resigned when he said, “You go to fast for me, Crowley.”

_He doesn’t love me._

And yet Crowley cradled the thermos against his paisley coat on the ride up in the lift to his apartment, mulling over and over what had just happened. This vessel contained the one thing that could completely, utterly destroy Crowley, and Aziraphale had handed it to him like it was nothing but clam chowder.

_He doesn’t love me. He just...doesn’t care what I do anymore._

_Or maybe he cares a lot._

His angel was scared, Crowley realised. Of getting caught. Of being punished. Of losing Crowley. Which only meant that Crowley was important to him. And yet he’d given him the tools for self-destruction— except that was never what Crowley meant it for.

Aziraphale didn’t know that. All he knew was that Crowley needed it, and despite his fear, despite his concern, he’d given it to him anyway.

Crowley’s fingers curled round the tartan-patterned exterior of the thermos. _He trusts me._

_He loves me._

_Oh, God. He really loves me._

  
  



	2. Part II

Believe it or not, the demon Crowley learned to slow down.

He did it for him. The most important things he’d done, and would always do, Crowley knew now, would be for Aziraphale— his priceless ally, his only friend. Dare he say, the love of his life. For him Crowley kept his mouth shut and kept his distance, hiding affection behind dark lenses and waiting for his angel to take each step, closer and closer back to him, whenever he felt the most ready. Like the edge of the ocean creeping in to the shore bit by bit.

It taught him patience, and it taught the fire in his heart to ease into a gentle, quiet glow, and soon loving Aziraphale became like white noise in the back of Crowley’s head, constant but now easy to ignore in the face of more pressing matters— like manipulating the M25 into its current dread-sigil shape, or bringing down the cell signals in London, or delivering the Antichrist.

Through it all, Aziraphale said things he didn’t mean and did things he didn’t always believe in, and Crowley, often with a sardonic smirk on his face, watched him, knowing better.

His angel, he knew, would turn back on those words if he knew it was safe to love Crowley. So Crowley learned to be content with their little stolen snatches of conversation, with inside jokes and witty remarks, with flirting— if only as if acting in a play, with him cast as the stern nanny and Aziraphale cast as the kindly gardener— with secret meeting places tucked all over London where they could connive, as Ligur put it all those years ago.

It was all turning out fine until they realised they’d had the wrong boy all along. And then things just sort of...spiraled.

Crowley slumped over the table in Aziraphale’s back room, the air smelling of hellhound and destiny manifesting, and all he could think was _the world is going to end and Aziraphale will never know I love him._

He took a paintball hit to the chest, miracled the blue stain off of Aziraphale’s coat and was rewarded with the familiar fond smile. _Was that obvious? Does he know?_ Crowley tried to make up for the moment of softness with a hard edge, a little violence, shoving Aziraphale hard against the wall for daring to call him nice. _It doesn’t scare him. Does he know? Can he tell?_

Crowley kept his eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. “I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary.”

“But it’s everywhere. All around here. Love. Flashes of love,” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. He didn’t notice Crowley’s knuckles whitening.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley gritted out, all the while thinking _Is it me? Can he feel it?_

_He loves me, right? Because I love him._

He asked Aziraphale to run away with him.

“Even if this all ends up in a pile of burning goo, we could go off together.”

“Go off together? Listen to yourself.”

_Doesn’t he love me?_

“I don’t even like you!”

“You do,” Crowley said, exasperated, even as his heart was breaking. _Angel, stop saying things you don’t mean._

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you. We’re on opposite sides.”

“We’re on our side—“

“There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley!”

_He doesn’t love me._

_Bugger that. I still love him._

Crowley backed off. Gave Aziraphale space before trying again— and this time he made sure to take the blame.

“Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it,” he blurted out (well, no one ever made a hundred percent sense when they were in love, not even a demon.) “Yes? Good. Get in the car!”

“What? No?”

_I love you. Can’t you see this is me saying that I love you? Can’t you see this is me trying to save you?_

“You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale was just as stubborn as he was. “I forgive you.”

_He doesn’t love me._

“When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

_That’s a lie._

_You’ll think about him all the time._

_And when he leaves you that message, you will come to him. Fuck Hastur and Ligur and anyone who gets in your way. You’ll come to your Angel._

“I know where the Antichrist is.”

_But that doesn’t mean he loves you, Crowley. It just means he needs you like you needed him all these years._

Crowley drove, determined, through London, to the bookshop. Oh, the things he would do for his best friend.

_I don’t care. He trusts me after all. He found a way, he wants me to help him fix this._

_I’ll do it because I love him._

Crowley just hadn’t confronted exactly how much, until he sat screaming in despair in the middle of a burning bookshop.

_So did he love me, then?_

The answer, Crowley realised, staring across the bar table at Aziraphale’s shimmering, non-corporeal form, was yes.

“I lost my best friend,” he heard himself say. Crowley could be a little vulnerable right now, as a treat. After Aziraphale had strung him along like this.

He caught a little flicker of that bright look in Aziraphale’s eyes, the one he’d found himself helplessly chasing for the last six thousand years. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

_He came back. He loves me._

And so Crowley drove again, through hellfire and traffic, to Tadfield. So Aziraphale had had the Book, and he’d had the answers, and he’d located the Antichrist even before they’d argued at the bandstand. He’d lied to Crowley. _Don’t think about that now. Just get to the airbase._

They would talk about that stuff later. If there was a later.

(And there was.)

* * *

Afterward— because of course, why should it be easy— Crowley had to stand the risk of losing Aziraphale one last time, as they figured out Agnes’ final prophecy and pulled off the body swap. There should have been time for talking, about things that hadn’t been talked about enough in the past, but Crowley was too tired to start anything and Aziraphale, patient in his own way, gave him the space he needed to recover.

_Does he love me?_ questioned a flicker of doubt.

He remembered a hand in his on the bus. The tide was coming in.

_He loves me._

Remembered the shimmer of Aziraphale’s outline in the pub. The way he had come back to Crowley, had found him somehow.

_Oh, yeah. He loves me._

And Aziraphale didn’t need to apologise for anything, not when Crowley had already forgiven him. He could do that because Aziraphale had taught him how. He could love, because Aziraphale had showed him what that meant from the beginning— a silky-feathered wing stretched out to protect one who was meant to be your enemy. An arm curled around a mother who had lost her son.

_He loves me— even if he shouldn’t._

* * *

Now they pulled up outside of the bookshop, after a quieter-than-usual trip back in the quieter-than-usual Bentley (“Why’s the volume gone down? That’s not like her,” Crowley said anxiously, but made no effort to turn the radio up). Crowley cut the engine, but Aziraphale lingered, remaining in the front passenger’s seat for a few seconds without a word as Crowley, gazing nonchalantly ahead, waited for him to alight, expecting a simple goodbye.

And then Aziraphale surprised him.

“You know I’ve always loved you, right?”

And the warm feeling in Crowley’s chest went entirely supernova.

The air inside the car tightened. Crowley’s heart raced. It was everything he’d ever wanted but been too afraid to hope could happen, and a confirmation of everything he had thought and known all these years—

_He loves me. He said so._

And then, because he was still a demon, he ruined it. Or tried to.

“Of course,” said Crowley. “You’re an angel. It’s what you do.”

Aziraphale made a soft, impatient noise in the back of his throat. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

This time when he looked at Crowley, Crowley looked back, turning his head so his eyes met Aziraphale’s thought the dark glasses.

“You can’t,” Crowley said without thinking. Old habit. Part of Hell’s employee onboarding. _We are the fallen, the unforgivable ones. Never forget._

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” Aziraphale said irritably. “I’ve had hundreds of years to be sure.”

“You can’t,” Crowley repeated almost desperately, still trying to convince Aziraphale that this was wrong, that he should run as far away as possible. “Not me. I’m unforgivable, remember? I’m- I’m unlovable. I’m no good for you.”

He kept his head lowered the whole time. His heart was pounding, Crowley couldn’ttell if it was urging _more, tell me more, tell me when and how you fell in love with me_ or _stop, please stop, I don’t deserve this._ His knuckles had gone white, still gripping the steering wheel.

“Bully for that,” came Aziraphale’s response. “I’ve forgiven you plenty of times. I’ve loved you for so long.”

Then Crowley said in a small voice, “I’m not ready.”

“What on Earth does that mean?” The words were exasperated, the tone gentle and patient.

“I’m sorry. It’s coming out all wrong.” What’s new, though? “It wasn’t a— I just— hearing it from you, I, ngk—“ _Deep breaths, Crowley_ — “I just. I’m not ready to be— to be loved by you.”

Aziraphale’s hand was on his again, gentle and warm. “I blame myself for that. Never gave you a hope, did I?” Aziraphale gave him a tight smile. “And I’m sorry.”

He waited for the words to settle into Crowley, as a shipwreck drifts to the bottom of the sea. For a long while Crowley did not respond.

Somehow Aziraphale understood. He always did.

“I’ll give you time, my dear,” he said gently. “Whatever you wish to do next, I will understand. Just...don’t be a stranger, Crowley.”

He alighted the Bentley, shutting the door behind him just like that.

Crowley sat blinking in his seat, alone, but somehow, not dejected at all.   
  


* * *

  
Don’t be a stranger, Aziraphale had said. So Crowley wouldn’t be.

Not long after- the very next day, in fact- he actually rose early for once, and went on a quest to prove himself. Because those simple words turned out to be the most effective magic trick Aziraphale had ever pulled off. They undid all the boundaries he’d set before with _there is no ‘our’ side, we’re not friends, you go too fast for me, what if we’re caught fraternising._ This was an invitation, the long-awaited proof that everything between them had always held meaning, that Crowley hadn’t misinterpreted his love all these years, an open door for the demon to freely walk through. An indication that Aziraphale was no longer afraid to let him in.

And so, when Aziraphale heard the Bentley pull up on the street outside his door, he peered out the window to be certain and saw Crowley climbing out.

He had a box of chocolates under one arm and a large bouquet of red and white roses under the other. He stopped in front of the shop, caught Aziraphale looking, and smiled wider than the Milky Way.

“Hey, Angel,” was all he said, holding the flowers up. And he waited.

Aziraphale smiled, tears coming to his eyes. He opened the door and ran out to him.

* * *

**Update: @deaddarkness1 on Twitter took a Discord request to illustrate the last part of this fic ❤️**


End file.
